


Nothing Like a Good Spanky

by Kizzywiggle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mild Kink, Research, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-02 07:38:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16782568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kizzywiggle/pseuds/Kizzywiggle
Summary: The things Sherlock (and John!) does in the name of research...





	Nothing Like a Good Spanky

**Author's Note:**

> I write smut. And fluff. And weird little one-shot scene things. This is all of those. It's not chronological with any of my other Sherlock stuff, it's just an idea I had.

Mrs Hudson called up the stairs. “Boys? _Boys!_ You’ve got a parcel!”

Hearing no reply, she started up the stairs, skirt swishing around her calves as she climbed. She paused to catch her breath on the little landing outside their door, and as she inhaled she heard muffled, rhythmic grunts and groans and “Dammit, John!” sounding clearly through the door. With a happy little grin, Mrs Hudson rapped on the door before leaving the parcel where they could find it easily, and tapped back downstairs to make a nice cup of tea. 

Inside 221b Baker Street, things were perhaps not _quite_ as sweet, optimistically romantic Mrs Hudson imagined, however. 

Sherlock _was_ , at that moment, tied naked and facedown to the kitchen table, yes.

John Watson _was_ beating (if a little half-heartedly) upon the bare and quivering buttocks of said detective with a flogger made of soft black leather.

Sherlock, indeed, _was_ indeed grunting and groaning as John passed the flogger over his flesh, but it wasn’t with anything _like_ the carnal bliss which dear Mrs Hudson fondly imagined…

“Dammit, John!”

Sherlock strained awkwardly in his bonds, desperately trying to crane his head round to look at John. His flared, elegant nostrils were pinched tight with displeasure and even whiter than usual with the force of his fury. Crystalline eyes attempted to shoot daggers at his lacklustre punisher, but John neatly moved out of Sherlock’s eyeline, denying him that control. Sherlock’s head sagged back to the table, the warmed-up varnish coating the wood grabbing and releasing the flesh of his torso with painful little sucks as he moved. “Dammit, John,” he repeated, but without heat this time, “All I require is for you to _attempt_ to beat me in the manner in which we ascertained the murderer did. You are, I calculate, of like enough build and stature, that we should quickly be able to corroborate my hypothesis. But not,” he attempted to crane his head round again, the table slurping painfully at his groin and nipples as he did so, “If you persist in this half-hearted manner!”

John lobbed the flogger at Sherlock’s head, missing by a deliberately narrow margin (he was, after all, an excellent shot). “No,” he replied.

“Oh, really, John, now is hardly the time to come over all delicate!” Sherlock mocked. “The only other person I know of similar physique is Anderson, and I’m hardly likely to let _him_ near my unguarded posterior, even to prove myself right!” He squirmed in his bonds once more and waited longer than he liked for a reply. “Well, then, if you are unable to assist, kindly release me. John?” 

There was the scrape of chair legs on linoleum, and the thump of John sitting down, then more silence.

Well, not silence, exactly. Sherlock’s hyperaware senses parsed the ticking of three separate clocks in the flat (one incrementally out-of-sync), the hysterical buzz of a fly trapped behind a curtain, an argument happening on the street outside, Mrs Hudson’s phone ringing - it would be a cold-caller, it always was, at this time of day, yet despite Sherlock having informed her of this many, _many_ times, he still heard her answering the call - a busker playing sax forlornly on the street corner. He could feel his skin, unpleasantly warm on the front, brushed with goosepimples on the back; cramp beginning in his left hip where the joint was being held at an unnatural angle for too long; sweat trickling from his hairline and down his aristocratic nose to hang from the tip. His mouth was dry, Sherlock realised suddenly, and his head was beginning to hurt. He closed his eyes and exhaled a shaky breath. Now that he wasn’t focussed on the experiment he felt dangerously close to being overwhelmed by the sensory input. 

The chair scraped again, and air whooshed over Sherlock’s skin as John moved around to stand at his head, where he crouched, cradling Sherlock’s jaw with a square, capable hand. The callouses formed on his dominant hand chafed exquisitely, and Sherlock fought to suppress a shiver of baffled arousal. He didn’t understand his body, sometimes. “Sherlock, open your eyes,” John said quietly. 

Sherlock opened his eyes, falling into the sombre gaze of his best friend and partner-in-crimefighting. John was for once entirely serious, no glint of humour at all in his eyes as he spoke. “I need you to listen to me,” Sherlock nodded. John began untying the ropes which held Sherlock captive as he continued. “When I have untied you, you will stand up and put your hands behind your back and stand with your feet shoulder-width apart. You will keep your head up, your eyes on me, and your breathing even. Do you understand me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded dumbly. What was this? 

“Words, Sherlock, I need to hear the words. Do. You. Understand. Me?” 

“I...yes, John,” Sherlock replied with none of his usual attitude. For once he was confused and unable to predict what was coming. His bonds loosed, John rubbed briskly at Sherlock’s limbs, massaging them until they glowed pink with healthy blood flow. He smiled a small, pleased grin.

“Excellent. Sherlock, stand, please.”

Sherlock stood with John’s assistance, responding to the tone of John’s voice, the whisper of command an excruciating tickle across his racing synapses. He lifted his chin and rested his gaze on John, tracking with his eyes as John dragged out one of the kitchen chairs and sat on it, legs spread wide, hands on his thighs, rubbing minutely. Wanting to make sense of the tension he saw, Sherlock gave John a lightning-fast once-over, eyes widening when he saw the outline of John’s semi-hard cock tenting his trousers. _What…?_ he wondered, then jerked his eyes back up to John’s face. “We need to talk,” John said drily. 

It didn’t occur to Sherlock that he was stood, at ease, buck naked, in the middle of his kitchen in broad daylight. He stood, he looked, and he listened, every single one of his hyperactive neurons completely trained on the man sat before him. “I’m listening, John,” he said with unaccustomed humility.

“As you can tell - actually, probably tell, being you - from looking at me, I am aroused, Sherlock,” John stated. “I’m _not_ gay, but I _am_ bi, and I do have a dominant kink. Working so closely with you for these months has been difficult, because, well, a,” he grinned, “You’re bloody gorgeous,” (Sherlock blushed, feeling the colour race from his high cheekbones down his neck and across his collarbones) “And b, every time you give me that know-it-all attitude I want to fuck you into happy silence.” John casually stroked a hand up his thigh and palmed his erection with a light squeeze. “Having you tied to the table and being asked to flog you has been an unanticipated kind of torture, this morning…”

Sherlock’s head whirled even as John kept taking in the background. He was good, no, _great_ at solving the most complex puzzles, could glance once at a room and lay it bare, but when it came to himself and other people's reactions to him, he was essentially blind, deaf and dumb. He’d known about John’s kink - a quick rummage through his room had revealed _that_ little secret - but as for how John felt about him, Sherlock…? He sucked in a deep breath, praying the oxygen would kick-start a brain gone suddenly sluggish. It didn’t.

John was still talking, and Sherlock tried to focus.

“...and as I know how you are about people, I haven't acted on it. However, this last hour has been, well, agony, Sherlock, and not the kind I like!” John looked at Sherlock’s face and surged out of the chair to grasp the taller man’s shoulders. “Sherlock? Sherlock!” As Sherlock began to hyperventilate, John guided him down to the floor, rubbing his back before fumbling, unseeing, on the counter to spill a bag of apples, bringing the paper bag down to Sherlock’s face while the apples rolled and bounced onto the floor with heavy thuds. “Breathe, just breathe, in….then out….” John encouraged. Sherlock listened to John’s voice and breathed, and breathed, and _breathed_.

When, finally, Sherlock’s head stopped buzzing and his lungs started working again, he became aware of John’s arms wrapped tight around him, one hand tangled in Sherlock’s messy curls, the other rubbing small circles on his shoulder. Through the unaccustomed feelings of safety and peace and quietness, Sherlock noticed that John’s horrible arran jumper still smelled subtly of lanolin, overlaid with the heavy floral tumble dryer sheets Mrs Hudson favoured, and the scent tickled Sherlock’s nose, making him sneeze. “Bless you,” John said quietly. Sherlock gave a wobbly smile, and John grunted a laugh. “Sherlock, I realise that in the history of the world this is probably the strangest, most unconventional, possibly inappropriate setting for a first kiss, but...may I kiss you?”

Sherlock thought carefully before replying. People, relationships, real, physical things weren't what he did well. He didn’t like not being good at things, at not knowing exactly what was happening, which was why he’d always avoided relationships (and indeed most people) like the plague. But, looking at John’s familiar, comfortable face so close to his own, feeling John’s breath warm his cheek, feeling the thump of John’s heart against his own chest, Sherlock suddenly realised that - out of all the many people he’d ever met - here was the _one_ person who not only tolerated, but liked him. Who didn’t just tolerate him for what he could do, but supported, encouraged and assisted him. The man who told him off when he was out of line, acted as a shield between Sherlock and the rest of the world, fed him, organised him, and actually _respected_ him. And on top of that, he found Sherlock sexually attractive?

Sherlock raised wide, scared eyes to John’s. The humour, affection, respect and desire in John’s gaze were clear enough for even Sherlock to see and understand. He raised a shaky hand to John’s face, feeling the deep smile creases at his mouth, the smaller, more numerous crinkles by his eyes. Stubble dragged softly at Sherlock’s palm, and the faint sheen of sweat on John’s brow dampened his fingertips. Sherlock slid his hand up further, into John’s short, thick hair. He tugged, gently.

“Yes, please,” he replied. “Please kiss me, John.”

John slowly brought his mouth down to Sherlock’s, the pair of them keeping their eyes open until the last moment. Once their lips touched, they both closed their eyes and revelled in the sensations of the kiss; the intimacy of shared breath, the slide of a tongue against teeth, the delicious sound of a lover’s broken plea. They kissed for long moments, for infinity and yet no time at all, eventually pulling apart to look at each other with similarly stunned expressions. Finally, John puffed out a laugh.

“Well,” he said. “ _Well_.”

“Eloquent as ever, John,” said Sherlock with an arched brow. Both men looked at each other, realising how right this felt. John stood up and pulled Sherlock after him, folding him into a hug which quickly devolved into a not-so-surreptitious grope. The sensation of John’s nails lightly scratching the long muscles of his back reduced Sherlock to jelly, and he gasped.

John let go and stepped back, although he was breathing hard and obviously very, _very_ aroused. He propped a hand on his hip and rubbed at his head til his hair stood up in spikes. “Well,” he said again, with a sheepish grin. “Well.” He laughed at his lack of words. “Uh...well…”

Suddenly, Sherlock’s superiority came flooding back along with his inquisitiveness. “At the risk of sounding perhaps gauche, John…” he began. John looked up, inquisitively. “Would you kindly assist me with gathering the data for my experiment now?” John’s face fell almost comically. “And then,” Sherlock said with a small, sly smile, “Could we kiss some more?”

John got right into Sherlock’s space and kissed him, hard. “Brat,” he growled. “Just...you...wait…” He led Sherlock back to the table and helped him into a spread-eagle, face-down position once more, tying and checking the ropes with cool efficiency. “Ready?”

Sherlock nodded, and braced himself as the flogger came down. He gasped. **** It was a long, _long_ time later before either of them left the flat. John noticed the parcel, addressed to Sherlock, and brought it in. Sherlock opened it, extracting a note scrawled on a Metropolitan Police compliments slip in Lestrade’s familiar, untidy scrawl.

_Sherlock - Looks like our killer has struck again. This time, he used one of these. Does it affect your hypothesis at all? - L._

Reaching into the box, Sherlock pulled out a long, thick, purple-jelly vibrator, completely, veinily lifelike (apart from it’s virulent purpleness), and dropped it onto the table with a look of distaste. He shot a glance at John, who had a huge, filthy smirk on his face. “No, John,” Sherlock said, cursing himself for the breathy excitement in his tone. “No…”

John advanced, picking up the scary purple vibrator and handling it suggestively. “Would you care to bet on that?” he said.


End file.
